


Mad Monday

by kalypsobean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AFL, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Sports, M/M, Major Character Injury, Pining, Unrequited Crush, australian rules football
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 22:31:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4763474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mad Monday when you can't drink and your brother looks hot dancing with fangirls is not the most fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mad Monday

**Author's Note:**

> for lotrspnfangirl's prompt: In the end we only regret the chances we didn't take.
> 
> Sports!AU, just because. Although you don't need to follow sports to get this. No sport at all. Nope. I just really wanted to write an AFL fic for some reason. Technically, this is only even superficially AFL.
> 
> This was supposed to be for salt_burn_porn but I had to choose between sleep and finishing, so I passed, and finished it without the porn.

He's pretty sure his contract won't be renewed. Sure, his agent is the one taking care of that and he's under orders not to even think about it, but he's not stupid. This wasn't the first year he spent more time under the care of the team doctor than on the field, and he would be lucky to be allowed to even touch a ball in the next. 

His body giving out wasn't anybody's fault. Although, Dean muses, that's not entirely true. A healthy dose of blame could go to Azazel - Dean still has nightmares about men with yellow eyes and Demons red and blue bearing down on him, followed by a crunch and pain beyond anything he could imagine. The doctor had sat him down, before the game was even over, while everyone else was out on the paddock and the screaming of forty thousand fans was echoing through the rooms like the migraine was outside Dean's head and not in. _You see all these players come back in eight, ten months, and their careers go on like they never stopped. It's hard work, Dean, and you can do it. I am not doubting you, boy, and I will be with you every step of the way._ Dean remembers the hope he had felt, although once the tramadol had worn off it was really hard to find it again. That is, if it was the tramadol. _The fact is, all those players are doing it with botox and steroids and stuff you don't want no part of. You can come back, but it won't be the same. Even if you work your little butt off, your body won't be right again. Can you handle that, Dean?_

And sure, Dean's grateful to Bobby because he never lied about how freaking hard this would be, and because he kept his promise to be there, even when Dean considered retiring at the distinguished age of 22. But right now, with his bad leg up on the next stool over, he can't help but wonder if Bobby should have lied, if it would disappoint Bobby if Dean finally gave up. 

 

Dean knew as soon as he started under 8's that he would play for the Hunters. He did have a choice, perhaps, but it was never entertained, by anyone. Mom might have put her foot down, but she died less than a year after Sam was born. Dean always caught the bus home from training, until he inherited Dad's old Chevy when he got some big truck or another as a perk for gaining yet another accolade. Then he drove himself and Sam to school and training.

One time he thought of keeping on driving - getting on the highway and just going, maybe with Sam in the passenger seat - and tonight, he thinks maybe he should have. Or he should have said no when Jim Parsons rang him up and said they had a contract with his name on it and all he had to do was sign... but the thought of what would happen if he didn't sign was a tiny one, in the back corner of his mind where fanciful notions went that could never ever be allowed to grow. There wasn't even a chance at another club - the Hunters picked him with their third round pick back in 1997, using the father-son rule to stop anyone else getting him.

Sam was the one who got out, although he went through state just like Dean did. He turned the Hunters down once; then Jess was killed and next October, Dean was doing strength training with his gangly little brother. Sam managed to hold on to something, though; by then player welfare and post-football pathways were a thing, and the club paid for Sam to stay in law school. 

Sam had his own car to get to those classes, though. 

 

So when Dean leaves, which won't be with any fanfare - no goodbye match, no big press conference - the Hunters will still have Sam to fly the flag. They will still have a Winchester lining up on game day, although Sam's a winger and Dean always roved. 

Dean has never felt so unnecessary in his life. They would tell him it's the drink talking, and he would laugh and get another one, except he's under orders from Bobby to stick to juice, with a soda after his 8:30pm dose to help it metabolise. He would still laugh, but he's the only one still sitting at the bar.

 

With the rest of the team there, Dean gets largely ignored. The girls who are in it for the thrill and the fame and maybe the money are attracted to the pool tables, where they can lean on the edge, tops down and chest forward. The ones who know their shit are on the dance floor, where they can give back as good as they get and switch up if they're not appreciated. Meanwhile, the ones who aren't interested at all and are there for their own reasons are also not going to come over and interrupt Dean's night. It's not something he's used to; it's a small enough city that his moderate fame gets him a few photos and autographs even in the shops, and he learned from the hate for his father that the few minutes giving back would keep both his reputation and his chances at sponsorship deals intact. As a result, he rarely gets quiet time out, but when he does leave - which is soon, if not already - he'll still have an income as long as he does a few ads and gets his picture taken in the right places and the right clothes. He can keep the car in parts and oil, and that's all he ever really wanted, probably.

 

Sam's on the dance floor. It's only a few square metres of raised parquetry, lit by strobes flashing in different colours. Dean can always see Sam - even in a densely packed crowd of men all taller than six feet, Sam stands out. His trademark long hair is flying every time he tries to spin, which he does a lot because he think it makes him look good. Dean thinks, though he's never said, that it's one of the few things that Sam does that makes him look like an overgrown, uncoordinated puppy. The hangers-on love it, and their teammates laugh, and so Sam is swept away in it. 

Tonight Sam is wearing a black shirt, bought before he packed on the muscle, and the sheen of the cotton stretched almost too tightly over Sam's chest picks up and reflects the light. Dean can see each line through the fabric, such that if Sam was facing him, he could trace every curve of Sam's abs. 

The thing about being pro is that there's no room for modesty - he's seen Sam in only socks just as he's seen all his teammates in different states of undress. Being brothers doesn't mean they get special treatment when it comes to changing in the rooms, or in training drills, or anywhere except when it benefits the club to stick the Winchester brothers in front of a camera. It is, therefore, rather easy to imagine the lights glinting off Sam's skin instead, perhaps with a sheen of sweat to add to the effect. He knows how Sam feels under him, as well; he's rubbed arnica into sore spots and partnered Sam for resistance training often enough that he would be able to identify Sam just by touch, from knowing how far apart each mole is, from the patches of dry skin caused by showering too often, from the bits of glue that never scrape off after the tape is ripped away. 

He would swear it's the medication, if it hadn't happened before, that make his thoughts spiral away from the safe zone. At any moment, it could happen: Sam would get tired of dancing and come over to the bar, tell the guys he's checking on his brother and instead drape himself over Dean's shoulder the way he did when they were younger, before Sam got an independent streak to fill in the spaces left by his growth spurt. _Let's get out of here_ , Sam would say, and he'd help Dean hobble to the car, mindful of the brace and Dean's fragile self-worth. He'd brush off the girl asking if they wanted company - _I already got company_ , he'd say, with a wide regretful smile that would be totally insincere. 

 

It won't be tonight, though, just like it wasn't last time or the time before. Sam's got his arms up in the air, his eyes closed, and his body is swaying in time to the music. The girls hanging off him are doing the dancing for him, and they're so close to the rest of the team that even they don't have room for anything more than a hip circle and waving their hands like they're more drugged out than they are. Sam doesn't need him; possibly Sam never has, but Dean's been so wrapped up in looking out for him that it only occurs to him now that he might not have needed to. Sam's the one with the multi-year million dollar contract, a post-career pathway, and the name. Dean's the one with the banged up knee and facing selling used cars for the rest of his life.

 

And so Dean slips out of the club, telling himself that he's taking advantage of the quiet time to get out without bumping into someone and hurting himself more, and that he wasn't having any fun since he wasn't drinking, anyway. These kinds of things, when the season's over and they don't have to worry about 6am recovery and drug tests are things that need to be scheduled and can therefore be faked, revolve around the kind of social lubrication that alcohol provides so neatly.

Dean's never been one for crowds, anyway.

 _You still awake, Dean-o?_ Bobby says, when Dean calls him back. _Thought you might have taken an extra pill and conked right out._

 _Couldn't hear the phone in the club, mate,_ Dean says. 

_You're off home, then?_ Bobby says. Even over the phone, he sounds concerned. _Swing by here, you can shoot the shit with me for a while,_ Bobby says. Dean almost refuses, but when Bobby opens up his home it's more of an order - he's old and ornery and part of it is an act, like everyone's public persona, so he can keep his valued privacy and not have hypochondriacs traipsing up his porch begging for oxy. _Could even stay, if you want._

 _Better than going home,_ Dean says. Home is where he grew up with Sam, after all - he never needed to leave, and right now, it would choke him. _Be there in five._

 _Bring beer,_ Bobby says. He hangs up, but the phone isn't even back in Dean's pocket before it rings again. _And soda and chips._

_Text me a list,_ Dean says. 

 

The door opens behind him and for a moment, the music and voices carry and Dean is almost drawn back inside. The couple that left are pressed up against the wall; the taller one is almost blanketing the other, and just from that, Dean knows it's something he doesn't want to see.

By the time he's reached his car, Bobby's list is open on his phone, and Dean can't even take the extra few seconds to gently lift his leg into the footwell so he doesn't jar his knee on the bottom of the dash. Through the pain, he wishes he could have one, or three, or five of those beers. Bobby will give him oxy, though, now that the season's over, and his career. It won't wipe the memory of Sam from his mind, but it will make the pain stop and maybe, he'll be able to sleep and his brain can shut off, just for a while.


End file.
